Beginnings
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: No one knew what happened to Harley Quinn after the Joker was killed...until now, that is. *revised*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _With a squeal of wet sneakers on tile, the author slides into the author's note and waves a sign around: "Revised! Revised! What once was old is new again! Revised!"_

_Originally written and posted August-October 2007, revised March 2009._

---

Harley Quinn lay on the ground, her eyes fluttering as she tried to force herself into consciousness. She hovered on the brink of the abyss with one foot in the world of waking, the other firmly planted in sweet oblivion and while the darkness urged her to give into its irresistible embrace, she fought it with what little might she still had left in her body.

Every bone, every muscle and every joint ached and protested as she tried to move, clawing her way inch by inch into full awareness. A strangled cry forced its way past her lips as she shifted and tried to turn over onto her side, a sound that was pathetic in its weakness. Her eyelids drifted open a crack and she wheezed, her lungs hurting with the sudden, sharp intake of breath as she came fully awake.

She lay there for several minutes, just watching as her shallow breaths turned to warm vapor in front of her eyes, clouds of gray that stood out against the blackness of the night sky above. Her ribs felt as though they were cracking with every small gasp of air she took in and when she began coughing, Harley was certain that she was dying. The shuddering that accompanied every cough was so violent she was sure she would shake off the very face of the Earth.

With effort, she focused on her breathing, _in, out, in, out,_ careful not to breathe too deeply--_very_ careful not to let her lungs inflate too much…and oh, God, but it _hurt_. How could such a mundane activity hurt _this_ badly? The grinding of bone on bone that came with every exhale was like red hot cinders buried beneath her skin, wedged between her ribcage and her spine. She scrunched her eyes closed and concentrated as hard as she could, taking mental inventory of all the places that felt wrong and what they meant.

There was something warm running into her eyes.

_Blood. Must have a gash in my head…that's going to be a few stitches…_

She tried to lift her arm.

_Shoulder's out of its socket. Going to need to get that set…_

Harley shifted again, moaning. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

_Broken ribs, probably a punctured lung…_

None of it mattered. She had to get up. She had to go help her Puddin'. He would berate her for being weak if she didn't get up. No matter how much pain she was in now, it would be nothing in comparison to what Mister J. would do to her if she didn't go help him. As she lay there on the ground, she convinced herself that no matter what he'd do to her, she would most likely deserve it. After all, he needed her and here she was taking a rest. In effect, she had abandoned him in his hour of need to take a nap.

Oh _God_, but it hurt so much.

She carefully rolled onto her back, feeling every pebble beneath her digging into half a dozen bruises that were scattered over the expanse of her back. Harley cried out when her dislocated arm shifted as she moved but she shoved the agony away, replacing it instead with the image of her beloved Joker, encouraging her to come back to him.

_Come on, Harley. Get up. Get. Up._

Blinking rapidly, swallowing the huge lump that was forming in her throat, Harley tried to sit up. Her abdominal muscles coiling and straining to bring her to a sitting position.

She made it about three quarters of an inch off the ground before she fell back again.

She wasn't strong enough to get up. She just didn't have any fight left.

"I can't," she wept, her normally squeaky voice coming out in a weak gravelly whisper, "I can't. I'm sorry."

Her eyes slid shut, tears leaking out from between her lashes, running down the greasepaint on her face. The salt stung as it ran over the cuts and scrapes along her cheeks, mingling with fresh blood.

Darkness was pulling at her, promising rest. Something she hadn't indulged in for a very, _very_ long time.

Maybe if she just lay still for a while...maybe she'd feel better if she took a breather. Then she could get up...then she could, she was sure of it.

_Just a little sleep...just a little rest...just a few minutes...five at the most..._

She barely felt it when the snow started coming down, small flecks of cold hitting her, numbing her further.

There was something strangely comforting about the icy chill that was setting into her body. It was easing the pain somewhat, the frigid cold replacing the aches in her bones.

She almost screamed when something slipped underneath her and lifted her battered body gently off the ground, but the whimper that came dropped pathetically from her lips, nowhere near the volume she thought it should have been to properly communicate the searing, blinding agony that was overcoming her.

Her eyelids shot open and all she saw in her field of vision was a black and yellow symbol. A black and yellow emblem that every law abiding citizen in Gotham saw as a symbol of strength, righteousness and protection.

For her, though, and others like her, it meant the end of the road. That icon which was pressed against her face belonged to a man who was going to take away her freedom...

_Again._

If only she were stronger. If only her body would cooperate and fight back.

A sharp pain in her side caused her vision to explode in a shower of green and burgundy sparks, and the darkness finally claimed her as she lost consciousness once more.

----

The clinic ceiling was almost identical to those in the Arkham hospital ward. Starched white and slightly dimpled.

Harley stared at it, her legs immobilized by the plaster casts wrapped around them and in traction. Her lower lip quivered every few seconds as she stared fixedly at the ceiling, eyes welled up with unshed tears.

The death of the Joker was all that anyone was talking about. The nurses, the doctors...even the janitor who had walked past the open door to her room.

He was gone. Really gone. It was confirmed, they'd said. The body was in the Gotham City Police Department's own morgue awaiting final examination.

Furthermore, it was reported that his loyal henchwoman was missing and presumed dead after a fall that no one would have been able to survive without the aid of a God given miracle.

Harley's throat constricted tighter as she choked back a sob. The Bat had brought her here, _he_ knew she was alive, even if none of the employees of the clinic were aware of her identity. Why didn't he tell anyone she was alive? Why did he let them keep thinking she was dead? Why hadn't he taken her to Arkham?

The world as she knew it was upside down, inside out and wrong way around. Nothing made sense anymore.

Mister J. was dead, the Bat was abandoning procedure, the reporters on the TV were saying she was MIA...

Her jaw twitched as she clenched it tightly, willing the reality away. Forcing herself to think of other things.

She couldn't...it all came back to Joker.

It _always_ came back to Joker.

She knew they shouldn't have taken little Robin. She knew it would end badly…she'd even tried to tell him so, but he wouldn't listen. He _never_ listened. To take one of Batman's children and make him over in the Joker's own image, to twist his young mind and warp him into a Joker Junior…that was too much.

It was her fault, she knew. If she hadn't said she wanted a child, he might not have gotten the idea to take one of Batman's. If she hadn't given him the idea to kidnap Robin, he wouldn't have died at the boy's hands…

"Quinn."

Harley's spine stiffened at the hard voice coming from the shadows. She turned her head away as best she could, but found that it hurt too much. Even with all the pain killers pumping through her veins, the dull ache that remained was still above what she could bear.

"What're _you_ doin' here?" she asked bitterly, her tone betraying her hurt, confusion and fear. "Wanna rub it in my face, huh?"

He was slightly closer, she could feel the strength of his presence. A pillar of warmth in the otherwise cold and sterile hospital room. "Quinn, I won't lie and say I'm sorry he's dead, but I _am_ sorry that you ever became involved."

"You killed him," she accused in a raspy whisper, turning to stare at Gotham's patron hero, pouring every ounce of hatred she had for him in her gaze. "You _killed_ him."

His eyes narrowed at her as she continued in an anguished voice.

"I'm alone," she murmured angrily. "My Puddin' is gone and everyone thinks I'm _dead_. You _let_ them think so. Why? Why not just dump me at Arkham where I belong?" She started crying in earnest. "You should have let me die, Batman. I can't live without him! There's nothing for me now that he's gone, nothing at all!"

She flinched when he took another step forward, his stride so long that just another footstep brought him to stand right next to her bed. "He manipulated you into thinking that you're nothing without him, Quinn. If anything, now that he's gone you have the chance to _really_ start fresh."

Harley let out a small, hysterical laugh. "Why bother? What am I without him?"

The Batman looked at her for a moment, as though weighing his options carefully before speaking. His eyes were narrowed to nothing more than slits as he said words that made her blood run cold: "A mother."

A few seconds passed in silence. She suffered a moment of faintness as she tried to process what he'd said.

"You mean I'm...I'm..." Her eyelids fluttered for a moment and she gulped. "I'm pregnant?"

His eyes narrowed another fraction of an inch and he stepped back. "You are."

Harley wondered if the world had really slipped out from under her or if it just felt that way.

"But what about the fall?" she asked, bewildered.

"It's a miracle, the specialist said." He sank further into the shadows. "There was no damage to the baby at all. Plenty of damage to _you_, but not to the child."

She was left speechless. Batman turned away from her, his shoulders squared. "You'll have the best care throughout your pregnancy, physical and psychological as well."

"Why not at Arkham?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut, some of her anger ebbing away against her will. "That's where they send people like--"

"The Joker _was_ your illness, Quinn," he said, cutting her off. "Without him, you can really become a functioning member of society again."

The meaning of his words sank in. She realized what he was spelling out.

He was offering her a clean slate. A _real_ fresh start.

That's why he hadn't told the cops that she was alive. That's why she was in a clinic and not at Arkham. He was giving her the chance to get better away from the public eye. Away from the place that would remind her of the Joker.

She opened her eyes and turned to look at him, to _thank_ him, but found the room empty and the window curtains billowing.

Harley turned back to look at the ceiling, her eyes growing moist afresh as her fingers crept towards her abdomen.

She held them there and gently pressed into the flesh, ignoring the pain in her shoulder at the movement.

A sound, somewhere between a sob and a cry of glee burst from her throat.

Something of her Puddin' had survived after all.

--------

A/N: The Dee Dees are Harley's granddaughters, and I could never picture Harl getting married and settled down after being with her beloved Mister J, so this explains away that aspect of canon. I totally didn't buy it that Bruce had no idea where Harley disappeared to after she went over that precipice (seriously, who gets up and walks away from something like that?) so I found this to be more plausible. It would fit that he'd feel some guilt and want to help out, right?


	2. Chapter 2

After fifteen days, Harley decided that she didn't like this pregnancy thing at all. Oh, it was all well and good in _theory_, but the notion put into practice was absolute hell.

She found, after fifteen _very_ uncomfortable days, that she had a bone to pick with whoever had decided to call it 'morning' sickness. That was, in her not so humble opinion, a _terrible_ case of false advertising and misinformation.

Thus far, she'd been sick every hour on the hour with the express exception of those that were between five and nine in the morning. Which were, according to the books on pregnancy that the Bat had supplied her with, the 'normal' hours for morning sickness to take place.

A tiny, trilling voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like the Joker had chided her that she couldn't even get pregnant right.

She was silently inclined to agreed with it.

Something inside her chest cracked when she thought of Mister J. and a fresh wave of tears threatened to overwhelm her. There had been nothing but news coverage about his death in the weeks since it occurred and with each passing broadcast it seemed more and more surreal.

It just didn't _feel_ like he was really gone.

Of course, deep down she knew he was and she attributed her feelings on the matter to the first stage of grief: denial.

The Bat hadn't returned to see her in those two torturous weeks, which made her angry. First he kidnaps her and hides her away from the rest of the world and then he doesn't come to see her...of all the ill mannered, bad tempered--

She stopped herself right there, clenching her jaw together tightly and slamming her head into the pillow behind it.

Harley _knew_ why he hadn't been to see her. He was too busy on riot patrol since the Joker's death became the news item du jour.

The moment the story broke, the entire city was thrown into chaos. Now that Mister J. was gone, the position of the Bat's Arch Nemesis was up for grabs, and it seemed like every two bit hood in town was after the job. There was a rash of robberies and murders, some committed by career criminals like Two-Face, while others were perpetrated by unknowns who were trying to establish themselves as serious threats to 'decent' society.

But that wasn't the weird part of the whole insane situation.

The _weird_ part was 'The Followers' who had emerged. The newsmen called them other things, but to Harley, that was the term that sprang to mind. She first saw them when the reporters of _Gotham Tonight_ covered the public burial of the Joker, where he was lowered into the ground in a plain pine box in an unmarked grave and then unceremoniously covered over with mud.

After the grave was closed, several Gothamites took it upon themselves to spit on it and throw things at it, all of them doing these terrible, disrespectful things without the police batting an eye.

'The Followers' were different. They were a small cluster of people who went out of their way to _protect_ the grave where others tried to defile it, and showed a fanatical devotion to the fallen antihero.

The scum of Gotham had embraced the Joker as the ultimate man against the establishment, the perfect punk role model in a world ruled by bureaucracy and the Bat. Now that he was dead, he had risen to the status of Martyr; a man who was the first and only to stand up against the Bat and match him blow for blow, emotionally _and_ physically. It was something that they admired and aspired to.

Something inside Harley was gleeful at the prospect of her puddin' having such a devoted following, and her heart swelled with pride when she saw them on the news.

The first day of news coverage at Mister J.'s grave, there was one in the crowd, a young man in his twenties who was wearing white grease paint smudged under his eyes. The second day, the man with the grease paint was joined by two others, these wearing dilapidated boutonnières pinned to the left sides of their shirts. On the third day there were at least a dozen, and the fourth day even more.

By the time day five rolled around, there were at least forty of them. The biggest trend amongst them seemed to be a satin arm band that was a brilliant purple, tied on the left arm as a tribute to the clown prince of crime.

There were even a couple who wore red and black strips of cloth on the opposite arm as a tribute to the Joker's fallen paramour.

The first time Harley had seen a teenage girl wearing the purple, red and black together, she had burst into tears.

She blamed it on the hormones, unable to accept that it had been triggered by the highly potent image that represented her bond to her departed beloved.

She wept because the Joker was dead; she wept because to the rest of the world _she_ was dead; but mostly, she wept because her beautiful child would never have the chance to know its father.

Harley cried until she was spent and then slid seamlessly into a heavy sleep, brought on by a combination of emotional exhaustion and morphine.

She dreamed of grease paint colored skies and men in pretty purple suits with beautiful smiles. Here she was safe in _his_ arms, away from all the nasty lying people who said he was dead and tried to make her believe it. Here she had a gold ring on her finger and a baby in her arms and all was right with the world. She was warm, protected and above all else _loved_.

When she murmured his name in her sleep, she was unaware that someone was eavesdropping on her.

Someone who narrowed his eyes briefly and left the window curtains flapping after his departure.


	3. Chapter 3

NOTE: I've decided to use the original version of the events in RotJ. This means Joker didn't die of electrocution, he was killed by Tim. It's just more dramatic that way.

-

The sun was peeking over the horizon outside of Wayne Manor, its rays casting a golden glow on the stone and reflecting off the windows brightly. All in all, a cheerful, promising looking day, the sort of day that spoke of fresh starts and new beginnings.

Inside one of the uppermost bedrooms, standing near the window where the curtains were parted, was the master of the manor: Bruce Wayne. He stared at the sunrise, not really seeing it. He didn't perceive the meaning of another sunrise, how glorious it was to see the herald of another day--a day that could become anything he wanted it to be, if he put his mind to it--all he saw was the end of another night's patrol, the end of another night fighting the insurmountable legions of evil that haunted his city. The undefeatable malevolence that had forced its way into his own home.

In the room behind him, tucked firmly into bed, was his young ward Tim Drake. The young boy was heavily sedated and resting as comfortably as his current situation would allow.

Not even a week had passed since his ordeal and he was _far_ from okay.

Tim had awakened at least a dozen times that first night, screaming at the top of his lungs, refusing to be quieted by anyone. He wept, he wailed and he shook so hard that Alfred had to hold him still to keep him from hurting himself.

The mental anguish the boy was going through was so much that Bruce could hardly bear it. Not only had his mind been twisted by that perverted madman, he had also committed a murder. How a child was supposed to deal with that kind of trauma was a concept that Bruce couldn't wrap his head around. Though he himself had experienced a horrible, life altering event as a boy as well, he had to admit that something about this seemed so much more damaging.

Losing ones parents was one thing; being brainwashed and killing a man was another entirely.

Bruce turned away from the window, allowing the curtain to fall closed once more. He looked at the frail little body in the king sized bed and was struck by just how weak Tim looked.

Where a mere month before he was a robust, lively creature with boundless energy, now he just looked washed out. The dark purple shadows under his eyes were those that should have been found on the face of a much older person and there were creases in his forehead where his brow had been furrowed without rest for close to a week.

As Bruce watched him, Tim twitched in his sleep.

No, not a twitch. A _flinch_. A violent one at that.

Something inside Bruce's chest twisted uncomfortably at the sight.

It was _his_ fault this had happened. If he hadn't taken on another Robin...

He _knew_ something like this would happen one day. It was only a matter of time before one of his nemeses got frustrated with not being able to kill _him_ and decided to take out their anger on his young companions. The most unfair thing of all was that he had been dragged into this whole mess...it wasn't Tim's fault.

Bruce made the decision to be an avenging presence in Gotham long ago, for his own benefit as much as for the benefit of rest of the city's inhabitants. He made a promise to his parents that he couldn't break.

Batgirl and Robin made no such promises. They would never have taken up cape and cowl if he hadn't paved the way.

Half of the villains in Gotham wouldn't _be_ villains if he hadn't decided to take the law into his own hands so long ago and appointed himself protector of the city.

The Joker would still be nothing but a smalltime crook if it weren't for Batman.

There was still a part of Bruce--well, a part of Batman--that refused to believe the Joker was gone. To have something be a part of your existence for so long and then it being yanked away was an unfamiliar feeling. As long as there had been a Batman, there had been a Joker; the two of them locked in constant struggle, physical, emotional, psychological...

Two sides of the same coin that could never escape each other.

As much as Bruce was loathe to admit it, that was the truth. Batman was the light, the Joker was the dark. While they both occasionally stepped over the line into the opposite's territory, they still represented very different, opposing ideals.

Chaos and Order. Good and Evil. Madness and Sanity.

Now, Bruce found himself without that weight on the scale that balanced him so perfectly.

Although...there were certainly enough people trying to fill that void.

One of the corners of Bruce's mouth quirked up in a bitter smirk. In death, the Joker gained more followers than he ever had while alive. Though they were far from the criminal mastermind types, they were certainly persistent little creatures. In the days since the Joker's death, the rate of petty thefts had increased tenfold.

How Bruce knew they were members of the fanatics (as he had taken to calling them in his head), was because they had all taken to dressing alike.

Well, not _alike,_ but there were several distinguishing features that they had adopted. The greasepaint smudges under the eyes was popular, but nowhere _near_ as common as the three bands of cloth tied to their arms in tribute to the fallen Clown Prince and his Harlequin.

Bruce's train of thought suddenly took a hard left towards Harleen Quinzel, quite against his will.

She was as much a victim in this thing as Tim was.

Where Tim was following his hero, Harley was following the man she loved--or rather, the man she _thought_ she loved. Her mind had been so badly bent by the Joker that it was a wonder the woman still knew which way was up.

There was a small part of Bruce that felt guilty for saving her and sheltering her after all the horrible things she'd done, but the larger part of him insisted that there was nothing wrong with Harley that time and therapy couldn't fix. She could go on to live a life distanced from her criminal past without the Joker in the way. Eventually, he had complete confidence she would make a complete recovery and become a whole person once again; no longer a soul shattered by the Joker's influence.

Looking at the prone body of his young ward, Bruce could only pray that the same could be said for Tim.


	4. Chapter 4

Harley was slowly going crazy. She could feel it.

Not that she'd been the poster child for sanity before or anything, but the madness was creeping into her head to take up residence and she could actually _feel_ its presence there.

It was the twentieth day of her hospital stay and Harley's cabin fever had risen to--if you'll pardon an atrocious pun--a fever pitch.

Being stuck in a bed with two broken legs in traction on its own was no fun, but factor in the depression, morning sickness and various aches and pains, and it was bordering on cruel and unusual punishment. The only respite she got was when she was sleeping, and slumber wasn't forthcoming without the aid of medication.

Harley spent much of her days remembering her dreams from nights gone past and wishing she could spend all her time in that wonderfully soft, beautiful world that her cracked mind had concocted.

She closed her eyes and could see the purple that covered everything, could feel the warm embrace that wrapped around her comfortingly.

Not even a month had passed and already, Harley was idealizing the Joker completely...forgetting every horrible thing he'd ever done to her and replacing them with things that never were.

Inside her head, the Joker was given personality traits that he hadn't possessed when he was alive, and events that had never happened became as real as the events that had actually occurred.

The spot in her mind which used to house all the memories of him shoving her, slapping her or pushing her out of windows, was quickly filling up with memories of Valentine's Day presents, kisses under the mistletoe, and birthdays that she would never forget.

Ironic that the reason she would never forget them was because they never actually happened...

Something that was contributing to her sudden idealization of her deceased lover was the constant media coverage about 'The Followers'. It made her heart swell that her Puddin' had disciples who were carrying on his work. Those purple, red and black arm bands made her feel a sort of maternal pride that had nothing to do with her pregnancy. She may have been Mister J.'s _first_ number one fan, but she was the mother of a movement.

The disaffected youth of Gotham, tired of their lives under the iron rule of the Batman and his costumed cronies, were walking in the Joker's footsteps, standing for chaos, anarchy and the punk 'Fuck The Man' mentality. It was a mass rebellion in brilliant flashes of royal purple, red and black.

There was an explosion at Arkham Asylum which had left Batman to round up the escaped inmates (the number of which was phenomenal, the damage had been so severe) and the resulting disorganization and destruction was something that the Joker would have positively _relished_.

The best part, though--the absolute _best_ part--was that one of the news crews had shown one of the crumbling walls of Arkham before it had exploded: standing out in stark contrast to the gothic gray architecture was a bright flash of neon green spray paint which proclaimed 'Joker Was Here'.

Harley thought it to be the most beautiful thing she'd ever laid eyes on.

Happy though she was about the changing landscape that was Gotham society's criminal hierarchy, she was very careful to conceal her joy in the presence of all but the select few who seemed sympathetic to the members of the movement. Her therapist--a tiny German woman who lauded Jung as the end-all, be-all of psychology--was under the impression that Harley was making great progress when it came to forgetting the Joker. The doctor with the dimples, who smiled at her every time he came to check on her, never would have connected the mysterious Miss Smith with the missing Harley Quinn because she was so good at seeming totally indifferent to the newscasts that were constantly playing in the background. Most of the nurses, too, were completely fooled, and only one was allowed to see the way her face lit up when he casually discussed the local goings on in Gotham.

"Miss Smith?"

Harley shook herself away from the image of Arkham burning and turned her head to look at the nurse who had entered the room to her left. His name escaped her at the moment but she knew his face. Deep flashing green eyes, a strongly set jaw and black curls that almost reminded her of her beloved Mister J. His smile wasn't as broad...nice though it was, but it was the large rubber bands on his wrist--purple, red and black--that made her open up to him. This was a man to be trusted, certainly.

"Have you seen it?" Harley asked, nodding her head at the television screen across the room.

"Miss Smith, I don't think anyone in Gotham _hasn't_ seen it," he answered as he stepped up to her bedside and checked her IV. "It was quite an...ahem…_impressive_ display."

"I'll bet," Harley said dreamily as the morphine drip was refreshed.

He smiled at her indulgently as he finished increasing her dosage. "I heard that Batman had to call in all the Gotham capes to help get the inmates under control--Nightwing, Batgirl, even the Creeper was called in. Feeling better, Miss Smith?"

"That's nice. It's all nice," she murmured, feeling the effects almost immediately. The pleasant sense of rightness washed over her, warming her from the top of her head to the tips of her toenails. "And don't call me Miss Smith."

The nurse tilted his head at her curiously as he took her pulse. "Why not?"

"S'not my name," she slurred sleepily.

"It's what your charts say," he replied, carefully placing her arm back down on the mattress.

"S'not my name," she replied, heavy-eyed but still insistent.

"Then what _should_ I call you?" He asked conversationally, pulling her blankets up over her still bruised body.

She sighed and her eyes slipped shut as she slid seamlessly back into her plum colored dream world. "Harley...everybody calls me...Harley."

The nurse reached over and hit the remote control to turn off the television. The room was plunged into darkness instantly, nothing but the beeping of the heart rate monitor breaking up the quiet.

He brushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead and looked at her from beneath half closed lids. He leaned close to her, close enough for her to smell his cologne--a heady, masculine scent that was so strong it invaded her morphine dream--and whispered, "I know, little harlequin...I know."


	5. Chapter 5

Gotham's idle rich is a funny old crowd, made up of men and women with nothing more to take up their time than playing the stock market or going to various soirees' thrown by other members of the social elite.

Most of them are happy in that existence. To have life handed to you on a silver platter is something they all take for granted; living in the lap of luxury and doing no more than what is absolutely necessary to ensure their continued lifestyle of excess. They'll be gracious with each other because it guarantees their social standing in the community; they'll give to charity because it is the fashionable thing to do; they marry their children off to each other in hopes of increasing their net worth and think nothing of treating their sons and daughters as livestock to be sold off to the highest bidder.

Of course, every once in a while, there is one who finds the life of a millionaire dull--not often, but sometimes. One who finds the idea of spending the rest of his life lounging by the pool positively repugnant and thirsts for a life of adventure, danger and, occasionally, _crime_.

Vincent Vreeland was one such individual, born to one of Gotham's most influential families, schooled in the best academies the world had to offer and spoiled within an inch of his life. A boy who'd had everything in the world handed to him the moment he expressed even the most fleeting interest in it.

Yet, he wanted none of it.

He found Gotham's upper class to be shallow, worthless drains on society and was much more intrigued by the more…_interesting _side of Gotham.

The _uglier_ side of Gotham.

The _criminal_ side of Gotham.

Without rules and regulations--without laws or morals or ethics--what he really wanted couldn't be bought in a store. He wanted _anarchy_. He positively _reveled_ in it.

Of course, no one _knew_ he did. He was _very_ good at hiding his little thrill seeking activities that gave him a rush that drugs never possibly could. While his schoolmates were attending keggers and slumming with drunken college girls, he slipped off into the night and jammed guns in innocent tourist's faces, snatching wallets for the thrill of it, only to throw them in the nearest dumpster a block away. Petty theft wasn't what really intrigued him: it was fun the first few times, but in Gotham, a mugging was kid stuff. He wanted to taste the big time.

He watched the big name villains in the city from the sidelines whenever he could, masking his interest in the darker elements in Gotham behind philanthropic pursuits.

Donating money to build another wing on Arkham Asylum so that security could be upped? Oh yes, all the papers had heralded him as being the next Bruce Wayne.

Never mind that he only did it so that he would have an excuse to pop by the asylum every now and again to 'oversee things' without rousing suspicion. That was the underlying reasoning for his charitable donation…it gave him an explanation for why he was hanging around an insane asylum watching the inmates in morbid fascination.

During those months when the 'hospital' was remodeled, Vincent had managed to slip away several times and into the more…dangerous area of the place.

It was there that he first saw her.

_Her_.

Harley Quinn, formerly Harleen Quinzell.

As surely as Harley had become obsessed with the Joker, Vincent became obsessed with her.

But he didn't _love_ her…no, he knew he didn't…he didn't even bother pretending that his lust for her was anything more than that.

He wanted to possess her…make her _his_…

After all, that's how people raised like he had been saw the world. You were an owner or you were a possession. There was nothing that money couldn't buy…the women who fell at his feet on a regular basis were proof enough of that. Wave a shiny bauble in front of their faces and they would profess to be yours forever.

But Harley…Harley was different than all those bottom feeders. So different that she could hardly be counted as the same species.

That fact made her all the more appealing. A woman with her sense of loyalty was a rare thing indeed…and as a man brought up to appreciate the worth of uncommon things, he realized her true value.

Naturally, he knew the idea of making her his was a pipe dream: she belonged to the Joker. Much as he may have wanted her, Vincent wasn't about to make a move as long as that madman was in the way.

That was no longer a problem though, was it?

Staring down at the unconscious form of the woman he'd spent over a year yearning for, Vincent felt that what he'd wanted for so long was finally within his grasp. With just five thousand dollars, he'd bought his way into a 'job' at the clinic, trading places with a _real_ male nurse who'd just been transferred from Metropolis General, and now he could come and go as he pleased and interact with the very object of his obsession whenever he wanted.

The whole world thought she was dead…all but the Bat, of course…everyone in this very hospital thought her nothing more than a Jane Doe.

It would be so painfully easy to spirit her away one night…

But not yet.

No…not _yet_.

Vincent ran a finger over Harley's forehead tenderly.

He had big plans for her, yes, that much was true, but he'd make her his _willingly_. He'd make certain she'd be as faithful to him as she had been to the Joker…

_Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.  
_  
There was still much to do before any of his plans would come to fruition. Many obstacles to push out of the way…and many more things to accomplish before he did what he set out to do…

The Clown Prince was gone…but with Harley Quinn at his side, Vincent would become the heir apparent.

Gotham would fall before him on its knees and he would lay waste to the landscape as ruthlessly as the Joker ever had.

Not yet…but _soon_.


	6. Chapter 6

Harley Quinn had been in the hospital for close to a month and a half before her benefactor made his next appearance to check on her. Throughout that time, her bruises faded from brilliant purple to sickly green, her cuts scabbed over and her bones mended themselves to the point she could begin physical therapy in hopes of returning to her former physical condition.

Despite the healing of her body, her mind remained as fractured as ever.

Though she put on a good show for the psychiatrist that the Bat had sent in, Harley remained firm in her desire to keep her skewed vision of the world intact and merely went through the motions while the tiny voice in her head--the one that sounded oh-so-much like her Puddin'--encouraged her to find a means of escape.

Even in her current mildly crazed state, Harley knew that the biggest obstacle in her way would be the man who now stood at the foot of her bed, swathed in black and drenched in moonlight.

_Batman_ saw through the act. He seemed almost..._disappointed_ in her for it.

But it didn't matter...she had _another_ ace up her sleeve.

Guilt, she noticed, was a powerful tool when used against Batman. It was guilt that made him save her life, and it was guilt that she would use to her advantage.

"Doctor Solomon tells me you're making progress."

"That so?" Harley replied, glancing at her nails nonchalantly, "I notice I haven't made enough 'progress' for them to give me any time outside this dungeon." She narrowed her eyes at Batman haughtily, some of her former spark making itself known once more. "Almost like they don't trust me."

"_I_ don't trust you," he rumbled in that silk-over-steel tone of voice he had.

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't. I'm crazy, remember?" Harley brought her index finger up and twirled it near her temple to illustrate. "I don't _deserve_ any trust, ain't that so, Batman?"

The man in the dark stiffened almost imperceptibly but Harley saw it and reacted accordingly. "After all, I only know who you and your happy little bat brood _really_ are under those masks and haven't told anyone...why would that make me worthy of _trust_?"

"Point taken, Quinn."

"I don't think it is," Harley answered, "I coulda outed you at least a dozen times by now but I haven't...yet I still haven't been allowed outside this rotten room since I got here. You say you want me to live my life as a normal person but you still treat me like a criminal? How is _that_ fair?"

Batman studied her carefully from his vantage point in the dark and was puzzled when she sobered rather suddenly.

Harley bit her lower lip and chewed on it for a moment, wondering whether or not she should dare to touch on the subject that would be the most raw for the Bat.

_All's fair in love and war, sweet cheeks..._ The Joker voice in her head piped up, _This is __**psychological**__ warfare...do your poppa proud..._

Her resolve strengthened, Harley drew in a deep breath and took the plunge, speaking as meekly as possible and took great care in stumbling over the words to aid in her deception, "How…how's Ti--I mean…how's...Robin?"

The muscles beneath Batman's cowl twitched. Were it not for the slightest rustling of fabric, she wouldn't have noticed it.

Harley cast her eyes to one side, as though she couldn't meet his gaze head on out of shame, "I...I wanted to ask before...I know what Mister--no, what _I_ put him through, was...really..." Harley's voice dropped to a mere whisper and she felt actual grief, remembering what had been involved in the transformation of Tim Drake into a Junior Joker.

She wasn't _heartless_...and he _was_ just a kid, after all...

_No, Harley girl...toughen up. __**He's**__ the villain in this scenario. You're not allowed to feel __**remorse**__._

She swallowed the heavy lump in her throat and tried to listen to the voice of reason--the voice of her Puddin'--but hot tears started spilling down her cheeks without her permission. "I didn't think...I--Mister J...he wanted to hurt _you_...he knows your kids are--_were_--the best way to do that."

Harley buried her face in her hands, not knowing _why_ she was suddenly so overcome with regret at what she'd been a part of, only knowing that it felt both horrible and _wonderful_ to cry for her sins. Like a weight being lifted that she'd been carrying for far too long.

She didn't even realize that she was muttering apologies over and over again until two strong arms wrapped around her as she rocked and wept madly, truly expressing her grief for the myriad of crimes she'd committed for the first time since she'd hooked up with the Joker.

Why she felt so horribly over what she'd done to Tim--why _he_ was the catalyst in bringing this sudden wave of emotion--she couldn't be certain…but a tiny part of her wondered if it was because she was soon to be a mother and knew that Batman must feel the same way toward his wards as she did toward the tiny life that she carried within her womb.

Harley would protect her baby at all costs…even go so far as to give her own life to keep it safe--if something were to happen to her child, she knew it would drive her over the edge.

And here she had done something so unthinkable--so _horrifying_ to one of Batman's children…

Oh, how he must hate her for it. How much must he want to wring her tiny neck in his mammoth hands for the misery she unleashed on the boy he treated as a son.

Harley trembled harder, repeating the refrain of "I'm sorry!" and requesting his forgiveness again and again as she sobbed loudly.

"Robin is...recovering," Batman said as comfortingly as possible with a wailing woman in his arms.

Harley continued to sniffle and shudder violently, and as the first upsurge of genuine overpowering emotion began to ebb away, she suddenly became aware of her current situation.

Batman had her in his embrace and was _consoling_ her.

Her crying and apologizing continued, but after the first few minutes, it was all part of an elaborate performance while the more calculating part of her mind decided that things had suddenly shifted in her favor.

_Success!_


	7. Chapter 7

"You're doing excellently, Miss Smith," Harley's nurse said to her with an approving smile.

"Thank you, Victor," she replied with as much forced cheer as she could manage as she let her left leg drop back down to the mattress.

Starting physical therapy after being sedentary for so long was incredibly difficult and Harley winced when she was instructed to lift her other leg as high as she possibly could. A few inches off the hospital bed was rather discouraging for someone with her history of gymnastic ability.

"Vincent," he corrected before nodding that she could let her right leg drop.

Harley made a cranky noise. "This is impossible. I'm never going to get better at this rate!"

Vincent looked at her severely, the no-nonsense demeanor written all over his face. "There'll be none of that talk. You're going to get better, you're going to be doing cartwheels all over this hospital by the time I'm through with you."

There was something familiar in the way he ordered her so sternly, so much so that a partially dormant part of her awakened abruptly.

_He sounds so much like Puddin'…_

Harley laughed carelessly, giving the male nurse a measured look that she hid rather well. "Cartwheels? I doubt it, Vinny."

_Does he suspect? Could he __**know**__?_

"Oh, you'll do back flips and all kinds of things when you're healed up properly," Vincent smiled his most charming smile at Harley, the one that must have won him a dozen girlfriends and their mothers too. "I promise you that, Harley girl."

Instantly, her laughter died. Her smile screwed into a frown and she stared at Vincent with cold, obvious calculation in her gaze. "How long have you known?"

His expression didn't change from the easy, carefree grin. "Since you got here."

"But you haven't told anybody." The suspicious side of Harley roared in protest of this turn of events. "Whaddya want, then? I haven't got any dough…you can't blackmail me…"

"I don't want _money_." The delicate stress he laid on the word wasn't lost on Harley and her eyes widened a fraction of an inch before they narrowed to slits. She knew _that_ tone--the tone her professors used when she asked if there was anything she could do for extra credit. "Oh no, Harley…I don't want money…I've got plenty of my own, you see."

"So whaddya want from _me_? Don't beat around the bush, Vinny."

"I don't want anything _from_ you," he said, surprising her with his earnestness. "I want to help you, Harley."

Her surprise gave way to outright laughter.

"Sure you do, kid, sure you do. The Bat wants to help me too…but you can see where _that's_ gotten me." Harley gestured around at the hospital room. "Four walls and a bed, big deal! Ain't I a regular queen of Sheba, sovereign of all I survey! Yeah, right. _You_ probably want to help me right into a house with a white picket fence, two kids and a mutt."

Vincent's smile got a little wider and his eyes grew a little brighter, shining with undisguised mischief. "No. I know this isn't the kind of life you want to lead. You're not cut out for life in the _real_ world as a legitimate citizen. You don't belong there…you belong in the underworld…same as me. Look at you in this place, languishing like a water lily in the desert."

Vincent knelt down next to Harley's bedside so that he could look her directly in the eye, "The Joker was somewhat of a hero to me. He has been ever since he first appeared on the Gotham scene when I was a kid…I feel obligated to help you out if I can."

Vincent stood up. "Unless you want the life that the Bat is forcing on you--no, I'm sorry, the life that the Bat is _offering_ you."

Harley looked at him skeptically. "And you want to _help_ me go back to bein' a criminal?"

"Think of it, Harley," Vincent gestured widely with his hands, "you, ruling Gotham's underground in the Joker's stead…_you_ carrying on his legacy in more ways than just having his child. You could lead _all_ the Joker's children…"

"The ones on the news," Harley whispered in understanding.

"The followers who've been carrying on with his tradition are genuine, you've seen them, but they're disorganized." He spoke with passion, a charisma that drew Harley in just as surely as the Joker once had through his own enthusiasm for mayhem. "They stand for everything that the Joker did…they just need someone to guide them. Someone like…"

"Me." It wasn't even phrased as a question as the wheels in her head turned at breakneck speed, urged by that little Joker voice in the back of her head.

_And a little harlequin shall lead them…Pharoh, let my jesters go!_

She could be Queen of Gotham's antiestablishment. Dedicate her life to guiding the next generation of men and women who loved her Puddin' as much as she did. She would be keeping her lover alive through an entire movement that could conceivably overthrow the whole city…

Harley shut her eyes and licked her bottom lip, thinking of the look on Mister J's face if he heard about this…if he heard about his very own set of loyal disciples wreaking havoc in his name. An entire _army_ of Jokers, dedicated to him and him alone, a cult that could become more powerful than the most devout religious sects and more creatively destructive than the Spanish Inquisition.

Her eyes shot open and she stared at Vincent with hunger evident in her gaze. "When can we start?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Tim?"

The rays of the coming dawn were just pressing their fingertips in through the window curtains of Tim Drake's bedroom when a black and yellow shadow slid inside. With practiced ease, it dropped into a crouch on the luxurious champagne colored carpet and then stood, all without making a single sound, exhibiting the stealth and grace of the most skilled of cat burglars.

But this was no burglar, despite all appearances to the contrary.

_"Tim..."_ A small strangled cry escaped the throat of the intruder as the light filtered in on the young and deathly pale boy tucked into bed. The shadow approached the side of his bed, hesitant, and timidly reached for the child nestled securely beneath the plush burgundy comforter.

Stepping out of the darkness to touch his forehead with the utmost care, Batgirl had to force down the lump in her throat as she stared at his limp little body, now just a shell. The lively sidekick had been reduced to nothing more than a shadow of his former self.

He flinched away from her hand as the leather of her glove came in contact with his skin and let out a shrill shriek. It tore at Batgirl's heart, pulling at the edges of a wound that still hadn't healed--a gaping hole made by the guilt eating away at her because she hadn't been able to keep this terrible thing from happening.

"You shouldn't have come."

Batgirl spun on her heel to face Batman, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She forced them down, refusing to confront him showing any signs of weakness. Not that it mattered, he was the world's greatest detective and he knew her better than almost anyone--surely he could see the distress written on her face plain as day.

Batman's cowl was pulled back to reveal the face of Bruce Wayne, making him appear both vulnerable and unapproachable all at once. Usually, Batgirl could deal with the opposing sides of him exposed so clearly like this--usually, seeing Bruce's face and not just his granite chin and scowling lips put her at ease, but this time, it did the opposite.

The Bruce Wayne that awaited her beneath the mask was not the billionaire playboy; this was the haunted Bruce Wayne...the glimpse of the man truly behind the Bat. She was coming face to face with the boy she'd seen in photographs from old newspapers--snapshots of a child mere days after his parents had been murdered in front of his very eyes.

"You shouldn't have come, Barbara," he repeated, eyes like cold steel as he met her gaze.

"I...I had to." Batgirl glanced at Tim warily before bringing up a hand to pull off her own cowl. She had to put them on equal footing--had to try and make him understand that this wasn't just affecting _him_. "You had no right to take him away and not let me see him."

"It's better this way," Bruce said forcefully.

Red hair slipping free of the confines of her costume's cowl, she seamlessly slipped out of her role as Batgirl. Barbara Gordon, the rebellious young woman who took up cape and cowl of her own volition, emerged from beneath the mask and turned to level her eyes at the pillar of gray and black. "Better for who?"

"Everyone involved." Bruce took a step towards her. It should have been intimidating--if she had been anyone else, it would have.

Rather than being unsettled, Barbara merely became more defiant and closed the distance between them until they were inches apart. "That's your opinion, Bruce. Tim and I--"

"Should never have become involved in _my_ crusade."

"It's not _just_ your crusade anymore, Bruce." Barbara reached for his arm, wanting to convey things he would never have allowed her to say out loud.

_You don't have to do this alone..._

He flinched away from her just as Tim had.

"No. Robin almost lost his life but _Tim_ may never recover from the mental blow that the Joker dealt him." He turned away from her, shoulders squared and determination in his posture. "I will **not** allow you to keep putting yourself in danger, just as I won't allow Tim to become Robin ever again...if he's ever well enough to want that once more."

He faced her a second time, but the haunted look was gone. In its place was the grim strength of will that made Batman such a force to be reckoned with.

"After today," Bruce grasped Barbara's shoulders in grip so tight it bordered on painful, emphasizing the gravity of his statement, "you're Barbara Gordon, college student and carefree young woman."

Barbara shrank back in disbelief. "Are you telling me you're forbidding me from taking to the rooftops beside you? You can't do that!"

"I can and I _am_. Batgirl is no more."

"No you _can't,_ Bruce," Barbara replied, her voice coming out precise and absolutely furious. "If there's one thing this mess should have taught you, it's that you don't control everything."

"Barbara--"

"You can tell me that you don't want me in danger, you can tell me that you care and are worried, but you're _not_ allowed to order me around. You're not my father--and even if you _were_, I'm not a child."

"You're acting like one."

Barbara's eyes flashed angrily. "And you're not? Bruce, things happen, you can't plan for every eventuality. You can't put me in a safe little bubble and protect me from what's out there. I'm in just as much danger as Barbara Gordon: Police Commissioner's Daughter as I am as Batgirl. I'm not going to let this…this _thing_ scare me into giving up on doing what's right."

"Barbara, I won't let you--"

"You don't have any say in the matter! I will not be ordered around by Bruce Wayne _or_ by Batman." She reached up and pulled her cowl back over her face. "With or without your approval I'm going to continue my patrols...and nothing you can do will stop me."

His hand clamped down around her arm and he pulled her to him. She tensed reflexively as he held her tight against his chest, as though he was afraid she'd slip away if he let her go.

"Bruce, what're you--"

The look in his eyes was unsettling, like he was seeing her for the first time, seeing something just beneath the surface that he'd never glimpsed before. A million emotions flickered across his face in the space of a second. He was afraid, sad, angry, disappointed and yet…so _proud_.

It only lasted the length of a heartbeat and his expression became shuttered just as abruptly as it had been opened. He let her go and she felt the loss of his arms acutely.

In a flurry of black fabric, Batman--_Bruce_ was gone, leaving a very confused Batgirl behind him.

"Bruce?"


	9. Chapter 9

The Batcave was dark, save for the light coming from the computer screen that Bruce Wayne sat in front of. The soft blue glow cast itself around the cave, bathing him and leaving him to focus on nothing but the flickering images in front of him. The mission was in front of him and darkness was on all sides. He wanted it that way. He _needed_ it that way.

He needed darkness right now--the darkness on the outside was a fine companion to the darkness on the _inside_. He needed to feel like a part of the shadows, inconsequential in the face of the task at hand, the task that was keeping him from examining what had just transpired.

He'd come too close to doing something he'd regret later...too close to telling Barbara that he wanted her out of harms way for more reasons than their _friendship_...

Bruce knew he had to keep a tighter reign on his feelings; all his emotions were far too volatile at the moment to give them freedom. He couldn't afford to go on a rampage, giving into rage or his insecurities. Screaming about the unfairness of it all or throwing priceless antiques around the manor wouldn't solve anything. It wasn't constructive and it wasn't furthering _the mission_, so it had to be ignored. He would shove it down and not pay any attention to it, letting the gash on his heart fester the way all the others had. Certainly, it would leave a thick patch of scar tissue that would make him even less emotionally accessible than he had been to begin with, but that was a small price to pay.

He stared hard at the view screen, trying to concentrate and failing. He'd read a line of this file, a line of that file, and then his mind would wander, replaying choice pieces of the last few weeks. He'd shake it off, go back to what he was doing for a few minutes and then the entire cycle started all over again.

He was angry...and lonely...and damn, he felt _guilty_.

He hadn't felt this way since his parents had...

Bruce shoved his chair back, irritated with himself for his own inability to think clearly without emotion clouding his thoughts. No, not just emotion, _guilt_--absolutely his most powerful motivator.

It was all his fault. That's why he took up the mantel of the Batman in the first place.

Maybe to begin with it was vengeance at its ugliest--but at the core of the Batman, there lay a small boy who blamed himself for not being able to stop his parents murders--and now, he was responsible for Tim's illness and driving Barbara away.

He'd destroyed his family all over again only this time, there was no way of writing it off. No one could pat him on the arm and tell him there was nothing he could have done. This blatant, _willful_ destruction of his little family group was his own doing.

Bruce took a deep breath through his nose, trying to quiet the raging torrent of emotions that swirled in his gut and made him feel nauseous, eventually putting his head in his hands, completely overcome with sorrow.

He lost so many battles over the past month.

The Joker may have been dead, but in death he accomplished the one thing he wanted more than anything else while living: He'd finally torn the Batman's heart asunder, leaving his entire world shattered around him.

The worst of it was, Bruce blamed _himself_. Oh, such a terrible brand of irony. The sort of irony that the Joker would have really appreciated.

There was no way to make this right again...if Tim ever came out of it, things would never be the same. He'd already lashed out at Barbara, trying to make her understand that he was poison--everything he touched and everyone he loved eventually started to decay _just_ from their association with him...

He wanted nothing more than to isolate himself. To hide from the rest of the world and never get close to anyone ever again would ensure that this horrible event would never repeat itself.

He would never allow his inner demons to blacken the souls of another human being as long as he lived.

It was going to be a bleak and lonely existence, he realized that, but at this point there were no other options left open to him.

The public version of Bruce Wayne would still be the carefree playboy philanthropist he'd always been; but the Batman would have no more partners and no more people to share his secret with. His mission would be as it had been in the beginning before Dick, before Barbara and…before _Tim_.

Batman would stand alone against Gotham's rogues with a more focused sense of single-minded determination than ever before.

A hand rested on his shoulder suddenly, so gentle that it didn't disturb his statue-like pose. "Master Bruce?"

He didn't even look up, even though he heard the distressed quality to the old butler's voice. "What is it, Alfred?"

Alfred cleared his throat. "There's been an explosion, sir...at Binns Hospital."

Bruce's head snapped up and he was out of his chair in a split second. "Quinn."

Alfred looked grave. "Her ward was hit, sir."


	10. Chapter 10

Binns clinic was in ruins when Batman arrived. The police were swarming around it, trying to put out the last of the fires that were still burning so fiercely that the sky was black with ash and breathing had become difficult for those without oxygen masks. Binns' walls had crumbled, some of them scorched and some of them reduced to nothing more than piles of rubble.

This wasn't just from an everyday run-of-the-mill explosion, the force behind whatever sort of bomb that had been planted was so great that half of the hospital was just _gone_. The ambulances that were roaring amidst the racket had EMTs hanging out of them, frantically tending to burned patients and wounded nurses. The devastation was unbelievable. At _least_ fifty people were injured seriously, and Batman spotted half a dozen body bags--all of them _smoking_.

It was total carnage, the likes of which hadn't been seen in a great long while. The damage was _so_ immense in breadth and scope that if he hadn't known better, Batman would have thought that the Joker had come back from the dead to commit this atrocity.

But it wasn't that simple…this was far worse than _just_ the Joker--Batman knew how to deal with _that--_this was someone working in memory _of_ the Joker and it was a positively ghastly concept to wrap his mind around. Everywhere he looked, pieces of purple, orange and aqua confetti were strewn amidst the debris, fake plastic grenades with sunshine yellow smiley-faces painted on them scattered the area, like Easter eggs waiting for eager children to come and find them and a piñata in the shape of Batman's head had been cracked open, spilling purple and red gumballs all over the pavement.

Commissioner Gordon was the first to approach Batman when he came on the scene, knowing full well that he would want as complete a report as he could manage. Gordon had been roused from his bed with news that this had happened at the crack of dawn, and though the reports he'd gotten weren't promising, there was nothing quite so overwhelming as seeing it first hand. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it, that much was crystal clear, but that didn't stop him from feeling ill at the sight that greeted him when he arrived.

He could only imagine how Batman felt about the whole thing…after all, it had been reported that he'd been coming to the hospital as of late. Jim assumed that somewhere inside the clinic, the boy known only to him as Robin was kept away from prying eyes.

Working under this assumption, Gordon was apprehensive about telling Batman that the children's ward had been the one hit the worst, but Batman just breezed forward with his questions.

"What happened here, Jim?"

Jim cleared his throat, slipping into commanding officer mode.

"It's those lunatics." Gordon nodded in the direction of a teenage boy with his face covered in greasepaint who was in cuffs in the back of a police car. "We caught one of them and we're taking him in for questioning, but..."

"Why _here_?" Batman's voice was strained with anger, sounding much the way a tire crunching over a gravel driveway does. Gordon had to fight the instinct to step away from the furious man in front of him. He'd seen Batman angry before, but this was Batman on the border between heroic and downright _dangerous_.

He tried to sound as soothing as possible without coming off as condescending. "We don't know for certain, Batman. As best we can tell, these 'Jokers'---as they've taken to calling themselves--they seem to have a ring leader now. There've been reports around town that they're becoming more organized in their crimes." Gordon glanced at the teenager in the police car once more, uncomfortably realizing that he wasn't that much younger than his own daughter.

"They're like the mafia, but more--" he tried to find a word that would fit and discovered that he couldn't. "They're just _**more**_**.** "

"More violent, more sadistic, more dangerous. Whoever is leading them is fostering their development. What should have been a fad has turned into an organization." The anger melted away, leaving the Batman looking pensive. "Someone is trying to take the Joker's place."

Jim's eyes went wide with barely contained horror. "Good God, _no_! Gotham is finally rid of him and now someone wants to take his _place_?"

"Every dictator who's ever fallen has had someone waiting in the wings to pick up where he left off...we shouldn't have assumed Joker would be any different."

Gordon looked troubled. "But why a hospital? That's not something the Joker would have done. Not without a solid reason...twisted though it might have been. If they're trying to replicate the Joker's crimes, this wouldn't be the way I'd have imagined."

"I suspect there's another reason they hit here, Jim. Though I can't be certain until the follower has been questioned."

"Such as?" Gordon stood in silence for a few minutes, waiting for the large costumed man at his side to speak.

He didn't.

"Batman...why did they hit here?" He prodded. "Why did they attack a hospital?"

Batman watched the flames dying under the attentions of the Gotham fire department before turning back to stare at Gordon with his eyes narrowed. "There's something I should have told you."

Though Jim had his suspicions, the truth was far more sinister than he could have imagined, but he pressed on anyway, presenting his theory.

"Was it Robin?" Gordon asked quietly, trying to soften the blow by lowering his voice.

Batman snapped around to look at Gordon with his eyes hard. "No. Robin wasn't here…but someone _else_ was."

Jim was confused. "Who? Batgirl?"

The man in cape and cowl shook his head. "No. It was Harley Quinn."

"She fell off a building!" The commissioner blinked repeatedly. "She's dead…you said she was."

Batman turned once more to regard the smoldering building. "I lied."

Neither Batman nor James Gordon noticed the decidedly feminine shadow that lurked in the background, listening to their conversation...

Nor did they notice when that shadow slunk away into a darkened alley, lush green vines that were completely out of place with their surroundings trailing behind like eager pets.


	11. Chapter 11

Pamela Isley, now known to most of the world as Gotham's own botanical terror Poison Ivy, had experienced by far the most horrifying few weeks since her transformation into an entity that was one with nature. When she was still completely human, the changes that were occurring inside her as she turned from woman into plant were all at once terrifying and thrilling. No one could say that it hadn't been an ordeal, regardless of the outcome. Poison Ivy was thrilled to be free as her body changed, but the innermost part of Pamela Isley had been scared out of her wits.

Though _now_ Ivy accepted her lot in life--indeed, _embraced_ it and all the perks that came with it--her most recent trauma wasn't as easy to recover from.

When news reached her that Harley Quinn was dead, she retreated into herself, withdrawing much the way a tulip closes itself to the outside world in the cold.

And that's what she was…_cold_. A chill permeated her body, freezing her from the inside out, almost as though her circulatory system had been pumped full of ice water. It wasn't a physical glacial sensation, it was that creeping dread and sense of _loss_ that ripped at her heart, making her hurt so badly she wondered if it was possible to die from the strength of her mourning.

Harley's death had hit her like a load of bricks landing squarely on her chest, leaving her with a myriad of emotions that she hadn't experienced in a great long while. Ivy _thought_ her human emotions were a thing of the past, but that sudden surge of agony she felt when she discovered her friend--and occasional lover--had met an untimely demise proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that on the very deepest level, beneath the sage green flesh and poison running through her veins, a human heart still beat strongly.

She'd thought it quite possible that spun glass organ had been crushed beyond repair under the weight of the news of Harley's downfall, but now that she'd overheard the Batman and Commissioner Gordon, she found an equally foreign emotion surging through her…

_Hope_.

If Harley was alive, it meant that Ivy was no longer alone in the world. She just hadn't realized just _how_ alone she was until Harley was gone.

Ivy had always been a loner of sorts, never letting anyone get close enough to her to hurt her, but somehow Harley had wormed her way into Ivy's life, latching onto her the way a creeping Jenny attaches itself to whatever surface was readily available.

The world seemed somewhat darker since Harley wasn't in it anymore and Ivy had become even more isolated than she had been before. She escaped Arkham, but she didn't go on any crime sprees…instead, she mourned, visiting the little grave in Gotham City Central Cemetery, forcing red roses and black poppies to grow up amidst the lush grass the moment spring came.

Now that she understood just how much the dopey blonde meant to her and that Harley was still alive and kicking somewhere, Ivy made a solemn oath.

Once she found Harleen Quinzell, she would _never_ let her go again.

Now it was just a matter of _finding_ the woman…


	12. Chapter 12

Four months in and Harley was starting to think this 'mother of a movement' thing was in competition with 'pregnancy' for award for most hyped with the least amount of impressive results. It sounded just lovely in theory, but more and more she was finding that with each passing day her restlessness and irritation grew and multiplied to the point that it became absolute loathing for anything that stepped within five feet of her.

Vincent...or Victor...or whatever the hell his name was--she just didn't _care_ anymore--insisted it was just her hormones acting up.

She'd shown _him_ hormones. Oh _yes_, she'd shown him _good_.

Served him right for leaving a sledge hammer lying around when he was _asleep_.

Bashing the bastard's skull in had taken the edge off, but two minutes later and she was crying and apologizing for what she'd done and two minutes after that she was beating on his motionless body, demanding he get up and help her and stop being such a slacker.

Either pregnancy was driving Harley around the bend even _further_, or she was just as unstable as everyone always said she was.

As for the 'mother of a movement' thing...well, that was going...

Not as well as she'd hoped.

Oh, there were a few genuine psychos in the ranks...those she trusted implicitly; but most of them were disgruntled teenagers trying to get in on the latest craze. They were useful meat shields, but nothing else, and as the weeks wore into months and Harley got bigger, angrier, surlier and closer to her due date, she started ordering them off into battle heartlessly _just_ to get rid of them. They were stinkin' up the joint, in her opinion, and she ruled the troops as ruthlessly as the Joker would have if he'd still been around.

That was her one source of solace. The idea that he would have been damn _proud_ of her efforts and thoughts of the fact that she was carrying her beloved Puddin's baby were sometimes the only things that kept her from sticking her head in the nearest oven.

By the time her second trimester dawned, Harley finally had the troops whipped into some sort of viable minion shape, through both fear and blackmail tactics, the Jokerz, as the news had acknowledged them (due to Harley encouraging them to start tagging buildings with the single word 'Jokerz' in purple, red and black) were taking Gotham by storm.

It was getting to the point that none of the other costumed villains could pull off a heist without one of her children managing to find a way into the equation.

As such, Harley had quite a few mounting enemies in the underworld, though the leader of the Jokerz was still incognito--merely spoken of as 'Mother'--and, for all intents and purposes, she was still _dead_.

Naturally, this made her feel _very_ secure that no one would find out her true identity, track her down or intrude on her perfectly maintained lair...

Harley could say, with quite a bit of confidence, that she was completely _untouchable._

But she was _wrong_.

---

While Harley Quinn was commanding her troops of 'Jokerz' down in the lesser used sewers of Gotham, the man known as Batman had been quietly, carefully gathering information; more carefully than he would have under ordinary circumstances so as to keep the _reason_ he was so diligently searching for a dead woman under wraps. It was a delicate process, to search for someone without the people he was questioning knowing _who_ he was searching for, but he had the methods mastered. So even though it was rather slow going, he _was_ getting what he wanted.

And that's what counted, really.

Jim Gordon had been mildly upset with Batman for keeping such a huge secret from him, but after he'd had time to calm down and had everything explained to him (Though it was a heavily edited version of events, naturally. He didn't _need_ to know how guilty Bruce felt over Harley.), he saw the logic of Batman's actions.

He wasn't _happy_ about those actions, but he could understand why he'd done what he had. After all, in Arkham, Harley probably never would have been given the opportunity to become anything more than a permanent inpatient without any hope for escape or reintegration into society; outside of Arkham and without the Joker clouding her mind, she might've been able to recover and become _normal_ again.

Being a compassionate man beneath all the layers of Hardboiled Police Commissioner, Gordon offered whatever assistance he could and made a point of keeping a critical, observant eye on the more unusual goings on in Gotham, hoping to help the dark knight in his quest to find the wayward woman.

And so it went, for close to three months, before they finally caught a break in the case.

Whoever had taken Harley from Binns' facilities had made a clean break and was very careful about covering their tracks, but when a body turned up at the morgue--beaten, bloody and bashed to bits--and the coroner confirmed the man had been bludgeoned to death with a sledgehammer, there was no denying who was responsible. The method _and_ the damage done to the body both _screamed_ 'Harley Quinn'.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Batman and Commissioner Gordon weren't the only people on the lookout for clues in Harley's disappearance, which Batman found disturbing to no end. Gordon was the only person he'd confided in and when he started hearing that someone _else_ was on the alert for anything Harley Quinn-esque, he felt a certain kind of dread trying to coil within him.

When the coroner turned up dead, via an ingested toxin, it was clear _who_ had such an interest in Harley Quinn's whereabouts. It didn't take the world's greatest detective to figure out the crime had been committed by Gotham's own botanical terror and the only person in the universe who truly called Harley 'friend'.

Poison Ivy was on watch for Harley, that much was crystal clear.

It was almost enough to boggle Batman's mind; to think that she'd broken out of Arkham, only to search for Harley Quinn, rather than to start a crime spree the way she _usually_ did wouldn't have seemed to _fit_ Ivy's M.O. For anyone without an interest in psychology or a deep understanding of the criminal mind, it appeared to be lacking any logic.

Of course, Batman _did_ understand the criminal mind, and what's more, he understood Ivy.

Poison Ivy was forced into complete isolation from other human beings. To have lost the only person who had broken down her barriers, the only person who _cared_ about her, must have been a terrible blow to her psyche.

And if she'd found out that the friend she _thought_ she lost was still alive and in hiding somewhere, Ivy would do anything she could to get her back, just to stave off the loneliness. In this, Batman and Ivy were very similar. The way she would search to the ends of the Earth for Harley, he would've searched for Tim or Barbara…even Dick.

Batman knew he couldn't _completely_ understand the depths of Ivy's seclusion, because even though his little circle of family was small, he still _had_ one. Before there had been a Robin, he had Alfred, after all, whereas Ivy was _completely_ alone, without anyone to anchor her to the rest of the human race.

Once Batman grasped the fact that Ivy was also searching for Harley Quinn, he came to a rather unusual decision. Rather than searching for Ivy and catching her, thus leaving himself to do all the work alone, he would keep a close eye on her. After all, she was more likely to find out things from Gotham's underground than _he_ was and she could probably find things out much _easier_ than he could.

With this line of reasoning in mind, he let her run free in Gotham for three whole weeks, keeping tabs on her movements as best he could, before finally knowing that she'd found out wherever Harley was keeping herself hidden away.

It was on a mildly warm, early summer evening when he saw Ivy's eyes light up as she interrogated one of the Jokerz, and he heard the young man screech something about the sewers and 'mother'. A little more prodding and he revealed that 'mother' was called such not only because she was in charge of everything going on in the Jokerz ranks, but because she was heavy with child.

"Where?" Ivy screamed in the youth's face, one of her vines reaching around his throat and _squeezing_ as it shook him back and forth. "Where in the sewers?!"

A Batarang shot out of nowhere, effectively giving away Batman's position concealed in the shadows as it sliced through the plant that was trying to throttle the life out of the teenage boy, dropping him gasping to the ground.

Poison Ivy spun on her heel, commanding some of her plants to lash out at the hero who'd been spying on her friendly little chat with the greasepaint covered teen.

"Don't you know it's rude to eavesdrop, Batman?" She hissed as he stepped out of the darkness and into her line of sight, valiantly fighting off the attempts of her flora to restrain him.

He didn't respond, opting instead to grab a canister from his utility belt and use the milky white contents--his own special brand of weed killer--on the vicious vegetation that was trying to spiral itself around him.

When the mixture hit the plant, it shrank back and Ivy let out an angry shriek, being able to feel the plant's pain through her link with it.

Yet ignoring her obvious agony, Batman continued to expose the plant life to the chemicals he held in his hand, until Ivy had slumped to the earth, unable to take the ache he was causing in one of her babies without collapsing.

The boy had attempted escape--no doubt to warn 'mother' of the events he'd seen occur--but Batman stopped him with a well placed kick to the head and a pair of handcuffs used to bind him to a dumpster in the alleyway.

Ivy was another matter entirely. She lay on the ground, chest heaving and eyes slightly glazed as Batman approached her fallen form and hauled her up with one hand, careful to restrain her with another pair of handcuffs as he did so.

She let out a devastating sob suddenly, startling the man in cape and cowl. "No! NO! I was so close!"

Ivy tried to turn to face him but Batman prevented her. "The only thing you're close to is another stay in Arkham, Ivy."

"Please! I have to see her! I've been searching for months!" Her voice was rough and pained as she continued to struggle to look her captor in the face. "I can't go back to Arkham now that I'm so close to finding her! You don't understand! It…it feels so empty without her. I have to see her! PLEASE!"

With a great deal of effort, Batman kept his demeanor neutral. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar!" She hissed. "You know who I'm talking about! You're the one who saved her! You're the one who put her in a hospital away from Arkham!" Ivy broke away enough to twist her torso so she could glimpse Batman's eyes. "Please, Batman, let me see her! I'll do anything you ask, I'll…I'll…anything!"

He grabbed her forearm, roughly turning her around to face him. "You know I can't do that. You're a criminal--"

"You bent the rules for her…I'm begging you, just this once, bend them for _me_," she said, a twinge of bitterness creeping into her tone. "I can't live without seeing her. Everything is so cold without her. I can't go back to that now that I know where she is! You're going to find her, I know you are, all I'm asking is that you take me with you. I'll go to Arkham quietly! I'll be a good little girl, I swear!" Another heart wrenching cry escaped from her throat. "Just let me see her!"

Batman found himself both puzzled and intrigued. Ivy was ordinarily a very strong individual, yet here she stood, shivering and shaking and _begging_ to be allowed to see her friend, where Ivy would never, under normal circumstances, beg for _anything. _Not even the preservation of her own _life_ would see her degrade herself to the level she currently was.

She looked so desperate, _sounded_ so desperate, that for one agonizingly long moment, he entertained the idea of taking her with him.

Then his attitude righted itself and the hard vigilante mask was back in place, covering all signs that Bruce Wayne's messier emotions had tried to seep through their veneer. "No. You're going back to Arkham, Ivy. That's final."

Her shoulders sagged in defeat and if Batman hadn't known better, he could have sworn she was _actually_ crying. Then she glanced up at him and there was a fire behind her eyes that told him he'd made a deadly mistake. He'd let his guard down for too long.

Batman barely had time to turn and register the movement of the plants that had miraculously revived themselves as their mistress distracted him before all went black.

As one of her plants fumbled about for the keys to her handcuffs, Ivy leaned over the fallen champion of Gotham to whisper, "You should have just said 'yes'."


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I think it's squick worthy. But then again, I dislike the idea of childbirth _anyway_.

-

Deep in the darkest, nastiest part of the sewers, there was something desperately, desperately wrong with the woman called 'mother' by her brood of adopted criminal children.

Harley was doubled over in pain, trying to stumble forward without _falling_ forward, as she moaned, agony threatening to overcome her completely. She felt as though her abdomen was going to split itself apart. Harley's spine spasmed every few moments and it was as if every muscle in her body tried to seize and tie itself into a knot.

The baby. Something was wrong with the baby.

She was only eight months along…barely that. The contractions were coming too soon. The child was coming _too soon_…

She needed help. She needed a hospital. A midwife. Pain killers. A bullet to the head. Anything!

A particularly violent contraction grabbed her between its jagged teeth and she _screamed_, finally losing the battle to stay upright that she had been so valiantly fighting up until that point.

The pain as her knees connected with solid cement with a crack! was _nothing_ in comparison to the feelings going on everywhere _else_.

_Should have…should have stayed with the Bat…should have…should have.._

Her breath came in short gasps as one hand stayed held to her stomach and the other braced her against the ground.

Why wasn't anyone coming to help her? Why?! She was the mother of a movement! WHY WASN'T ANYONE HELPING?!

The Joker's voice echoed around in her skull. _You know why, Harley…you sent them all away…you wanted to be __**alone**__…you stupid, stupid thing. You're going to kill the only piece of me you have left. You imbecile!_

Harley shook hard, trying to keep herself from hitting the floor beneath her by collapsing completely, but her arm was threatening to give out with every wave of throbbing that wracked her frame. Sweat poured from her and the quaking only got worse, to the point that she couldn't support her own weight anymore and she lay on the ground, curling into a ball and clutching her belly, just trying to keep her body from shattering into a million pieces…because that's exactly what it felt like.

Harley's throat was trying to close up with the force of her frantic choking swallows of air…she just couldn't get enough air! There wasn't time to take a breath between the sudden ripples of pain that tore at her insides and lightheadedness would have been a welcome change from the constant torment that her own body was subjecting her to…

But the pain was too sharp for her to be taken by oblivion. Too sharp and too acute for unconsciousness to try and claim her. Every time she started drifting towards darkness, a stabbing pain erupted from her abdomen, yanking her back into the present so harshly that stars danced in her field of vision.

Another scream tore loose from her throat and her head thrashed from side to side as the feeling that she would be torn in half increased.

_I'm dying. That's all there is to it. This is going to kill me, without a doubt._

As she thrashed with her eyes squeezed shut, completely preoccupied with labor pains, she didn't hear the rapid foot falls coming her direction. She didn't see the brilliant flash of green that was rushing towards her with all the urgency that the situation called for. She didn't even hear her name being called in a strangled shout, full of fear and anxiety. "Harley!"

Ivy skidded to a stop and flopped on the ground next to the writhing blonde, grabbing her by the shoulders as forcefully as she dared, trying to cease her squirming and failing.

Harley was too caught up in her anguish to notice the hands that danced over her skin, quickly and efficiently pulling her clothes away in a strategic fashion. She didn't feel the cool hands on her thighs that pried her legs apart…all she was aware of was the sudden, aggressive urge to _push_.

Well, who was she to argue with her instincts?

She shrieked again as she pushed and Ivy tried to shout at her that it wasn't _time_ yet, but the blonde was so lost within the sea of terror mingled with pain that she ignored the order given her and continued to rip herself apart as she forced labor along much quicker than it was supposed to be.

Blood pooled beneath Harley and all Ivy could do was restrain her as she continued to do horrible damage to herself. She couldn't _stop_ her from pushing--she couldn't _stop_ her from tearing her own flesh as she did her best to force the child that was within her womb into the outside world long before it was ready, all she could do was try to keep her thrashing to a minimum.

It was panic that was making Harley act this way, Ivy knew, but regardless of what had caused it, she couldn't stop what had already been started. The baby was beginning to crown, covered in the dark, slick blood of its mother, which was rushing from her far faster and in far larger quantities than it should have been.

If this wasn't over soon or Harley didn't get medical attention, she was going to kill herself in childbirth, something that was nearly unheard of in modern society.

Calling some of her plants towards her, Ivy left them the task to holding Harley down as she prepared herself to receive the infant that would soon be gracing her presence and with one last cry, Harley pushed hard enough to force the child from her womb and into the waiting pool of fabric that Ivy was holding.

Harley flopped back, breathing heavily, shakily trying to recover without losing consciousness and Ivy stared at the tiny creature she held bundled in her arms, covered in blood and wrapped in the hastily torn off garment that Harley had been wearing.

It was still. Silent. Eyes shut and mouth clamped closed, much smaller and more delicate than most babies were after birth…

For several moments Ivy thought that perhaps it had been stillborn, but then a pair of bleary green eyes opened to meet her own and its little chest heaved like a miniature set of bellows, letting out an angry howl that boomed through the sewer tunnels, announcing to the world that the child of the Joker had made its grand debut in a manner befitting the child of the most chaotic man who'd ever lived.

Ivy stared at the baby for a few seconds more before she glanced up at her completely exhausted friend, whose eyes were nearly shut, fluttering slightly as she fought to remain awake and coherent after all that work.

"It's a girl."


	14. Chapter 14

_Three months later…_

Bruce Wayne walked along the streets of Gotham, his ordinarily handsome face pinched with thought and his brow creased with a series of wrinkles that spoke of the inner turmoil ricocheting about in his head.

The entire city was awash in activity. Of course, it was Christmas Eve--everyone was rushing around trying to get the last of their holiday shopping done--so that was only to be expected. What's more, Gotham square was lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree and the sounds of celebration poured out of every store and residence he passed.

He should've been celebrating as well…Tim had finally made a full recovery just a few scant weeks earlier, after close to nine months of alternating catatonia and bouts of screaming, but rather than making him happy (though it did make him happy) it wound up only complicating matters.

The first thing that Tim had asked after the doctors were satisfied he was in ship shape was when he could become Robin again.

Bruce had forbade the boy from ever putting on a mask and costume again.

He secretly suspected it would work about as well as forbidding Barbara had. If anything, after he had ordered her to go back to being a civilian, Batgirl was more active than ever and on every patrol, Batman found himself with a feminine black and yellow shadow following him on the rooftops.

The first few times, he had stopped to scold her and try to dissuade her, but she still wouldn't give up and refused to give up her life as a vigilante.

After all, she had argued, it was she who found him and brought him to his senses that night after Poison Ivy had knocked him goofy; he _needed_ her for backup.

And that night…_that_ night. What a disaster that had been. Not only did Ivy get away, but by the time Batman reached the sewers, there was no sign of Harley Quinn _or_ her friend. All there was to indicate that anyone had occupied the sewers was a large bloodstain, which he tested and confirmed belonged to Harleen Quinzell.

There hadn't been any sign of either woman since. Three long months of searching, and there wasn't so much as a whisper about 'mother' or Poison Ivy.

They had seemingly disappeared into the shadows together, never to be seen or heard from again.

They had to be somewhere, he knew; people didn't just vanish…but as long as they lived their lives quietly without any criminal activity involved, he couldn't find them.

Somewhere, deep inside Bruce, beneath the alternating layers of billionaire playboy and city's champion, he was glad that they had both 'retired' and despite his duty to apprehend them, he knew he was more than likely to just leave them alone so long as they did the same for Gotham.

If they wanted to go on in anonymity, without doing any harm to anyone else, fine. If they decided that the mundane life got _too_ mundane and they picked up their respective villainous personas again, then he would deal with them properly.

Until then, live and let live.

---

Across the square, bundled up in a well tailored coat and looking every bit the professional she used to be (save for the fact her hair and eye color had both been changed), Harley Quinn leaned over the stroller she'd been pushing and adjusted the blanket that covered her daughter.

She did it to keep her head down when she spotted Bruce Wayne, more out of habit than anything else, on the off chance he should see her and try to apprehend her.

But when she leaned down, she found two little emerald eyes pinning her in place and she couldn't help but smile at the pale little face staring up at her as she fiddled with the baby blanket.

"What a charming child!"

Harley stood up straight as a rod and tried to keep her demeanor calm instead of listening to her first instinct to take her child and run. She turned and met the eyes of a little old blue haired lady leaning heavily on a walker.

"Thank you," Harley said graciously, careful to keep her voice as deep as possible.

"What's her name?"

Harley tried not to let her suspicions run rampant as she preserved her plastered on smile. "Her name is Josephine Kerr."

"Kerr? That's an odd middle name to have."

"Family name," Harley replied evasively as the elderly woman took a few more steps closer to the carriage and leaned in to look at the baby.

"What brilliant eyes," the old lady continued. "With eyes like that, she'll grow up to be quite the little heartbreaker."

Josephine giggled a high pitched baby giggle that was filled with the pure glee that only a child can experience, and Harley found it catching, leaving her unable to remain upset at the old crone who was intruding on her territory.

"And what a laugh! Like the tinkling of fairy bells! Oh yes, she'll be quite the heartbreaker indeed."

"Yes," Harley responded, smiling as she tucked the blanket around Josephine a little more securely. "She'll grow up to be just like her father."

-

A/N: Well my dear audience, that's all I've got left to give on this particular story. I originally intended to write a sequel that would cover Josephine's life (By the way: Joe Kerr was an alias the Joker used once upon a time, if I remember correctly, and it felt fitting), but I've no idea if I'll do that or not. Until I decide, enjoy the tale as is and take the time to review.

And maybe, if you're still craving something Batman, you'll have a look at the _other_ things I've written, hm? -wink-


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